


Tipping Point

by silentfort



Category: Leverage
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The French Connection Job, Established Relationship, Multi, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort
Summary: There's a reason Hardison is a terrible tipper. Habits are hard to break.Sometimes it just takes practice.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 38
Kudos: 182





	Tipping Point

It took him a while to figure out.

It was the bike courier that did it. Eliot had been leaning on the bar watching Hardison and Parker arguing about Andy Warhol cutting up and selling pieces of his work - Hardison thought it was ridiculous, Parker liked it because the smaller bits were more portable - when he saw the courier through the brew pub window. The man coasted to a stop, sat back on his bike, and looked up at the sign above the door with an obvious slump to his shoulders. Eliot couldn’t see his expression from here, but he could imagine it clearly enough. Disappointment. Annoyance. Lines on his forehead that meant _Not this place again_.

Because Hardison was a shitty tipper. The man had enough money to buy a building on a whim, to upgrade his tech every few months before the newest stuff was even on the market, to take Parker to any point on the earth she wanted to throw herself off of. And he counted out nickels and dimes like it caused him physical pain.

The realisation hit Eliot like a crowbar to the head. He thought about the loft upstairs, the thousand dollar cologne in the cupboard next to the single ply toilet paper. The custom-built robot mop that was intelligent enough to chase Eliot when it recognised him, and used detergent so cheap not even Value More sold it. The fact that whenever Hardison was in charge of groceries he’d come back with nothing but knock-off brands, the packaging all weird approximations of something more recognisable, the popcorn and chips and cereals almost the same as the real thing but not quite.

Hardison had grown up poor. They all had, more or less, although they didn’t talk about it much. Eliot had never had it as bad as Hardison, and certainly not as bad as Parker’s years on the street, but still. He knew what it was like when the newest clothes you had were things that more than one other person had outgrown. To sharpen a pencil down to the stub because you didn’t have a spare. To celebrate a birthday with a homemade card, and know that a present wouldn’t be coming.

Habits were hard to break.

By the time he blinked and came back to himself, Hardison was at the door with his package under one arm, and the courier was turning away.

Eliot frowned, pulling his wallet from his pocket as he jogged across the room. He pulled out a note, not checking the denomination, and slapped it into Hardison’s startled hand.

“Tip the man,” he hissed through his teeth.

Shocked into autopilot, Hardison did so. The courier looked at the cash. Blinked, opened his mouth. Closed it. He made a hasty retreat.

Hardison turned slowly back to Eliot. “You wanna tell what that was about, man?”

“Where’s your next meal coming from, Hardison?”

Without the years of practice with Sophie, without years of watching and listening to and knowing Hardison, he would have missed the intake of breath, the fractional widening of his eyes, the tension of anxiety on his forehead. Then there was just confusion. “I -”

“What about him?” Eliot’s arms were crossed, but he jerked his head toward the window where the courier was now speeding away. “What’s he make in an hour? Compared to you? Compared to the pub, your stocks, the interest on your alias’ savings -” he glanced away, taking a breath to release the tension that was ratcheting up in his shoulders. When he spoke again his voice came out softer than he meant it to. “You got _enough_ , Hardison.”

He looked back, saw Hardison staring at him with eyes wide and dark, and hoped he’d heard what Eliot meant. Not _You have enough, so stop being greedy_ , but _You have enough, you’re safe_.

Hardison coughed, “Didn’t know it meant that much to you, man. You date a bike courier at some point or something?” His tone was light, but there was tension still in his jaw, like he wasn’t sure what to feel.

“Just,” Eliot lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I know habits are hard to break.” And he went back to the bar.

***

The next time Eliot and Parker were picking up coffee to take back to the van, she brushed past him as she shoved a few hundreds into the tip jar on the counter. Her face was twisted up, reluctant but at the same time fiercely determined, and as she pulled her hand away she glanced at him. Unsure. Like she was seeking approval.

He grinned at her for a moment, then herded her out of the coffee shop before the waitress noticed and started freaking out.

***

They were in a hotel, Eliot sitting back and watching Parker flick through blueprints on one of Hardison’s laptops, when someone knocked at the door with room service. Hardison levered himself off the couch, and Eliot looked over to see him pulling cash out of his pocket, swiftly folding a twenty inside a five. There was a brief conversation at the door, then he was wheeling the service cart up to the table, and over the rattle of plates Eliot heard the bellhop’s sharp inhale. Hardison didn’t look up, and Eliot didn’t look directly at him, but he couldn’t help the smile that lingered on his mouth.

***

It wasn’t always an extravagant amount of money. They generally couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves. It was sometimes easier to get away with when they were in the middle of a con, and Hardison seemed to take advantage of using cash to sell his character whenever he was playing a rich idiot.

Parker grew to like the challenge of planting bills in the pockets of waitstaff, flight attendants, gas station workers, strangers on the street. Agent McSweeten, once. The size of the bills varied widely, as did the currency, but the way her eyes sparkled and her lip quirked made Eliot reluctant to comment. He’d think of how she once thought not getting paid was worse than almost getting killed, and watch her slip fifty Euro into a harried young mother’s diaper bag, and bite back a smile.

***

Eliot signs the delivery slip, scrawling his alias’ signature with half-asleep muscle memory. The delivery woman tucks the clipboard under her arm and watches him a moment as he reaches for his wallet - then stops. It’s stupid early and they got in late last night, he’s still in the sweatpants he slept in and his wallet is upstairs.

He opens his mouth to apologise and grunts as Hardison drapes himself heavily over Eliot’s shoulders, waving his wallet vaguely in his face. He yawns with a gust of morning breath.

“Tip the nice lady, Eliot.”


End file.
